


Auf Wiedersehen

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-World War II, Slash, Violence, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hastings has never liked Christmas, but now that he is married to a man who loves Christmas, he must cope with those emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auf Wiedersehen

**Author's Note:**

> Series: In the same universe as my other stories. There is a brief mention of Jeeves from _Jeeves and Wooster_.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own them. Christie does.
> 
> Note: I was contemplating a Christmas story and for completely unrelated reasons I was contemplating the Christmas Truce. Phantomphan1990 gave me the idea to combine the two.

I have never been fond of Christmas, not even as a child. Those memories are best left alone; I have spoke with Poirot on the matter only long enough to ascertain that Christmas in his family was a joyous occasion, and I felt that he would not understand, if I were to tell him of my lack of good cheer during the season. Instead, I arranged to spend Christmas away from him every year. Poirot seemed not to notice these absences covered the same period of time. Sometimes I traveled to Scotland, other times to Argentina, and once to a little hotel just south of London. I needed this time alone; however, I knew once we were affianced, I would no longer be able to hide myself.

While Christmases spent with my family were a trial to be endured, during fighting in the trenches, they were downright miserable. One exception was what the history books now call the Christmas Truce. I am proud to say that I was one of the British soldiers who participated in the Christmas Truce, although many times since we have been branded traitors.

I can still remember the carols we sang, each in our own language and then in the language of the opposing side. I knew very little German, but the tune of _Silent Night_ was unmistakable. The Germans would sing a verse, and then we would sing a verse. They decorated their trenches with holly and candles, and we did the same.

Christmas morning each side cleared No Man's Land of our respective dead. I found a helmet that belonged to one of the dead Germans and handed it to the German closest to me. He froze, and then hesitantly took it, offering me a soft _dankeschön_. It sounded like "thank you," but as I did not know how to respond in German, I said, "You're welcome," and gave him an apologetic smile. His eyes were a startling blue, and when he smiled I could see how young he was.

After we finished our sad task, one of our lads called out that a kraut was approaching. We looked up to see a lone German in No Man's Land, a white cloth in his outstretched hands. I do not remember who made the first move from our side, but soon we were mingling amongst the enemy.

They did not seem like the enemy – the same men who so violated Belgium and thus forced us into the war. They were young lads just like us with equal amounts of brazenness and fear in their manner. One dark-haired boy told me proudly that he had left university to fight for his country; another showed me pictures of his pretty wife and their lovely baby.

The man who thanked me for the helmet approached me, and introduced himself as Conrad. He was fair-haired and handsome, and we chatted as best we could in broken English and German. He taught me the German for "button" and then asked if he could have a couple of mine. I laughed, and said yes. I thought nothing about the danger as he used his knife to cut a couple from my coat, and then he offered the same to me. I had my ration of tobacco that I did not use for I did not smoke. He thanked me graciously, and gave me his ration of tea, handing it to me with a wrinkle of his nose. Jeeves, my batman, hovered nearby, and I could sense his nervousness.

"This is not a good idea, sir," he murmured.

"Nonsense," I replied. "It's just some harmless fun."

We played football until it grew too dark for us to see, and then we returned to the trenches. I found Conrad to say goodbye. We shook hands, and he said, "I thought Englishmen monsters, but that is not the case. _Auf wiedersehen, mein freund_."

"Goodbye," I replied. " _Auf wiedersehen, mein freund_." I am sure that I butchered the German horribly, but he smiled at me and patted my shoulder.

Our feelings of goodwill and peace were shattered during the evening when the generals had heard about our truce. I was pleased to hear that this had happened all down the trenches. The generals, however, hated the truce and ordered us to fight. We heard the angry shouts of German and realized that they must have heard the same from their generals.

I hated the idea of shooting at the men with whom we had shared such convivial an afternoon – it had been far more pleasant than any Christmas with my family – but we were threatened with court-martial if we refused. Jeeves tried to tell me that he had warned me that fraternization was bad idea, and this was the only time I can remember losing my temper with him.

We began half-heartedly to fire at the German lines, and they did the same. It was several hours later when Lieutenant Barker whispered to me, "I think they are firing into the air. I've been doing the same."

"I shan't tell a soul," I replied, smiling at him.

The next Christmas we were forced to fire at the German who was approaching with a white cloth. I ordered the man next to me to fire wide, and after a few shots, he retreated and military action recommenced.

 

The Battle of the Somme seems like a nightmare now. I am proud that I served as a soldier in His Majesty's Army, but I can never remember with pride the men whom I killed or the ones I saw dead from British bullets. I cannot say that the deaths of my comrades were necessary or right.

Christmas time brings these memories back more so than any other time of the year. Even the date on which I was shot does not cause my nightmares so much as the Christmas season. I have nightmares about being shot and of shooting others, but more often I have nightmares about Conrad.

We had gained a little ground in our latest push, and were burying the dead as we went. Germans were among the dead, and we laid them to rest in graves separate from ours. Among the dead, I spotted Conrad.

"Oh god," I said, running to him. He had been dead for several hours, stiff and cold, but still handsome.

"Put him on the pile," I heard someone say behind me.

I wanted to scream, to cry, to hit the callous man behind me, but instead I opened up his jacket and felt around the inside pocket. The buttons which I had given to him were still in his jacket. He had kept them and the empty tobacco tin.

I left them with his body, and made sure that he was buried with as much dignity as I could give him. He had been a good friend.

 

I did not speak to Poirot about my participation in the Christmas Truce. He had good reason to hate the German army, and I did not wish to resurrect those memories. Rather more selfishly, I did not wish to hear him speak with disgust about a moment I held dear.

Now that we were lovers, it would be impossible to remove myself from Poirot's festivities. I learned much about Belgian Christmas customs, all the food, the games, and the celebrations held twice in December.

I was reading correspondence in Ms. Lemon's office, hoping to remove myself at least briefly from Poirot's preparations. He was humming a carol as he positioned the holly above the fireplace.

"What's the matter?" Ms. Lemon said, her voice startling me from my reverie.

I felt the dread in my expression, and tried to lighten it with a smile. "Oh, uh, this letter. It's from…" I looked closer at the letter, and continued, "from a charity of some kind. They want money."

"And that is what worries you?" Ms. Lemon said, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

I smiled, and nodded at her. Perhaps she might have believed me, but then Poirot began to hum a different tune. Poirot has a lovely singing voice, but I was not thinking of his voice so much as the words. He sang the French lyrics, and I knew the English, but I heard the German that Conrad had taught me.

  
_O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,  
wie treu sind deine Blätter.  
Du grünst nicht nur  
zur Sommerzeit,  
Nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.  
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,  
wie treu sind deine Blätter._   


For a moment all I could smell was the bitterness of gunpowder and the rot of death. I heard the joyful cries of their lads and ours, and I could see the smoke waft up from the cigarette that Conrad had rolled with the tobacco I gave to him.

Ms. Lemon was shaking my arm, and I blinked as I looked at her. My vision was fuzzy, and I suddenly realized that tears had risen in my eyes. "Captain Hastings!" she said. "You've gone pale."

"Yes," I said after a moment, blinking furiously.

" _Mon ami_?" Poirot said from the sliding glass window which separated Ms. Lemon's office from the sitting room.

"I…" How could I explain why his song had caused such an outpouring of emotion, far more than I had expressed before in his presence – except for once during the case which brought us together. I stood up quickly. "I forgot a gift!" I said, dropping the letter to Ms. Lemon's desk. "Yes, I need to go to the shops immediately."

I collected my hat and coat, and hurried into the hallway. I had no plan as to a destination.

 

For the third night in a row I had no desire for anything more intimate than an embrace and some kisses. Poirot tested my forehead for a fever, and asked me if I was ill, but there was nothing physical in my ailment. I knew that this could not go on much longer because we both needed the reassurance of physical touch in our relationship. We were still newlyweds in many ways.

I woke from my dream, heart thumping in my chest. Poirot was lying against me, an unusual position for him. His arm was around me, and I watched it rise up and down in time with my chest. I was surprised that he could not feel my heart pounding.

I slid out from under him, unwilling to wake him or to discuss what had caused me to wake. My old bedroom was still assembled because we needed to preserve the semblance of being roommates. I sat down on my old bed, and searched through the nightstand. Among the travel brochures and old receipts I found a velvet bag. Inside was a tin no longer filled with tea and two buttons from a German officer's coat.

I rolled the buttons around in my hand, remembering the soft 'snick' as the knife cut through the threads. I saw Conrad's smiling face as he took his knife back. I watched the dirt scatter across his grey, lifeless face.

Poirot's presence did not rouse me from my memories until he rested a hand on my shoulder. I started a bit, and tried to hide what I had been contemplating in the folds of my dressing gown. Poirot merely sat beside me and waited.

"What troubles you, Hastings?" Poirot asked.

"Nothing," I murmured, my eyes lowered in shame.

"Arthur," he said with a soft but firm voice. He so rarely used my given name that the surprised forced me to look up. "What troubles your sleep?"

"Memories," I replied.

"Of this season?" He asked. At my surprise, he added with a hint of ruefulness. "Ms. Lemon was good enough to remind me of your previous absence from my Christmas festivities."

"Not just yours, Hercule. Anyone's festivities." I sighed softly, and said, "I dislike this time of year."

Poirot held out his hand, and I reluctantly gave him the tin and buttons. He inspected them both, and then looked at me, his curiosity obvious. "What is the story behind these objects, _mon ami_?" 

Reluctantly I told him about my participation in the Christmas Truce and the men whom I met. "They were all decent lads, Poirot. None of them deserved to die. Yet we had to keep fighting."

Poirot took one of my hands in his, his thicker fingers wrapping protectively around my own. His hands were perfectly manicured, whilst mine were still calloused from physical activity and a bit chapped from winter.

Softly I continued, "Conrad did not die at Christmas; nevertheless, that is when I remember him most. Christmas reminds me of how cruel men are."

" _Je suis désolé, mon brave soldat_ ," Poirot said, his other hand reaching up to stroke my cheek. I closed my eyes, letting his sorely missed touch soothe me. "Why did you not tell me, my friend?" he asked.

I gazed into his eyes for a moment, seeking any hint of anger, and when I found none, I said, "When I was convalescing at the hospital, word got around that I had participated in the Christmas Truce. I was called a sympathizer by some – a kraut-lover, a traitor – and this by my own fellow countrymen, soldiers who had experienced the same hell in the trenches which I had. I feared what my best friend – the one I hold dearest – would have said since he had more reason than some to hate the Germans."

I had little idea what Poirot had experienced in Brussels as the Germans advanced. I know that he had been wounded, but I do not know how or when. Now was not the time to ask, but I would ask someday soon.

"Do you consider me a traitor, Poirot?" I asked him.

" _Non, mon ami,_ I do not." Poirot remained silent, and just as I was about to break that silence, he said, "If you wish to leave for the season, I will not stop you. If you wish for me to put away the festivities, then I will do so."

I shook my head, but when I tried to speak, he raised his free hand and asked for silence. "If, however, you will celebrate with me… share with me your thoughts and I shall do the same, then we shall strengthen our _engagement_."

"Yes," I replied, squeezing his hand. I gave him a small smile, and said, "I apologize for my melancholy, Poirot."

Poirot laughed, and kissed my cheek. "As long as you are here, Hastings, we shall have an excellent Christmas."

I leaned forward to put away the buttons and tin, but Poirot stopped me, and said, "Perhaps we should display them on the mantel."

"The mantel?" I said, surprised.

Poirot nodded, and took my hand. Without words he led me to the sitting room. On the mantelpiece were some odds and ends. I was curious to see a shiny red ribbon amongst other bric-a-brac.

Pointing to the red ribbon, Poirot said, " _Ma mère_ wore this in her hair every Christmas. As a little boy I can still remember the fascination her bow held."

"Oh, Poirot," I said softly, and then kissed him gently on the cheek.

"My family's tradition is to keep these little mementos of our special friends and to bring them out at Christmas. Yours are welcome, if you wish."

I smiled at him, surprised and reassured by his kindness. "I shall, my dear. Thank you."

I positioned the items among his, and we stood there in our own reveries. Eventually Poirot yawned, and said, "Let us return to sleep, _mon chou_."

"Of course," I replied.

 

I cannot say that the nightmares stopped immediately, but with the fear of being discovered removed from my mind, the dreams lessened and I was able to enjoy Poirot's company, even if I was not able to wholly enjoy the festive season. My joy came from Poirot's pleasure, and I was content.

Poirot, however, was not so content. I was aware that he was up to something, but I had not a clue until he insisted that we attend the Chelsea Flower Show. Of course this was some months after our first Christmas together, and so the Christmas Truce was far from my mind.

" _Mon ami_ ," Poirot said, touching my sleeve so as to gain my attention.

I looked up. The years had been kind to him, and I recognized immediately the German who had shown me pictures of his wife and child. He noticed Poirot and myself, waved at us, and led over his wife.

"Captain Hastings!" he said with a thick German accent, and gave me a strong hug.

"I'm sorry," I murmured into his jacket, "but I don't remember your name."

"Hans Friedmann," he said, letting me go so that he could shake my hand. "Do not worry yourself, captain. I did not know your name either until last week."

"Last week?" I asked.

"Yes. Your friend here asked that we meet. He said that you had been involved in the Christmas Truce, and after he described your gifts to Conrad, I knew it was you I had met."

I smiled sadly, and said, "I am sorry about Conrad."

Friedmann nodded, and said, "He was a good friend." He turned to throw his arm around his wife, and said, "This is my wife, Hannah."

After we all said our greetings to her, I asked, "Are you visiting England?"

I thought I saw a moment of hesitation before he said, "No, Hannah and I have left Germany. We hope to settle here or in America."

"Oh," I said, not sure if I understood.

"My wife," he said, and for a brief moment I could see the fear in both of their eyes. "My wife is in danger."

"I say," I said softly. The star of David hung round her neck; it glittered with subdued light against her black dress.

After a few moments of idle conversation, I told them to look me up again, if they should ever want to chat. They agreed, and we said our goodbyes. "I do not know if we shall ever meet again, _mein freund_ , but I shall always remember you."

"Goodbye, my friend," I said, shaking his hand.

After we parted, I turned to Poirot and asked, "You planned this?"

Poirot bowed ever so slightly, and said, " _Mais oui_. I felt perhaps that it would be good for you to be reminded that while many men died, some lived."

I smiled at him, and said, "Thank you, Poirot."

We were in public, and so I could not kiss him as I wished to do. Instead, I steeled myself, and rested a hand on his shoulder. His bright smile told me all I needed to know.

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> French Translations:
> 
> _Je suis désolé, mon brave soldat_ \- I am sorry, my brave soldier  
>  _engagement_ \- a commitment, an undertaking  
>  _Ma mère_ \- My mother


End file.
